


Wear Your Heart on Your Skin

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Developing Relationship, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: After Enjolras's soulmate tattoo shows up, he's determined to get it permanently covered up if only to reclaim some agency from Mother Nature. But Mother Nature may have other things in mind, since the tattoo artist Enjolras goes to is named Grantaire...





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [@a-moment-of-such-peace](http://a-moment-of-such-peace.tumblr.com/), who requested a soulmate AU. I was given a few options for pairings, and I’m sure no one will be surprised that I went with E/R.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

“Could this _be_ any dumber?” Enjolras demanded, holding his shirt up and looking in the mirror at the tattoo that had appeared on his side at some point over the night. **  
**

Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a soul mark, Enjolras,” he said patiently. “It’s supposed to be a unique, identifying mark, not a work of art.”

Enjolras glared at him. “I know that,” he snapped, lowering his shirt and crossing his arms in front of his chest. “But it’s still stupid.” He switched his gaze back to the mirror, scowling at his reflection as if he could still see the tattoo. “It looks like some sort of deformed bird.”

“Who is it?” Courfeyrac practically screeched as he ran into Enjolras’s bedroom, excitement clear on his face. “Who is he? Where did you meet? When did you meet? Is he hot? I bet he’s hot!”

While Enjolras just gave him a withering look before slumping over to the bed, Combeferre shook his head slightly to try to signal to Courfeyrac that this was not going to be that kind of conversation. “He didn’t meet anyone,” he told Courfeyrac. “The tattoo just appeared during the night.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac said, visibly deflating, and he perched on the bed next to Enjolras. “So your soulmate must’ve just turned 21.” He nudged Enjolras, his tone turning sing-song. “Unless you met him in a dream.”

Enjolras snorted and laid back against his pillow. “Yeah, right.” He sighed heavily. “I was supposed to have two more years before I had to worry about this,” he complained, sounding slightly whiny. “It’s not fair.”

Combeferre shrugged, sitting down in Enjolras’s desk chair. “No one ever accused Mother Nature of being fair, and rules are rules: you get your soul mark when you meet your soulmate, or when the first of you turns 21, whichever happens first. Besides, at least you had 19 whole years without a soul mark. Some of us got ours when we were five.”

Enjolras glared at him. “You got yours when you met your best friend at the age of five, the person you have had fourteen years to fall in love with, and I think it’s worked out pretty well for you.”

Courfeyrac made a vague noise. “I don’t know,” he said, scratching the tattoo on his neck, the exact same tattoo that Combeferre had on his neck. “I mean, we tolerate each other, but—” Combeferre seized a pillow from Enjolras’s bed and threw it at Courfeyrac, who ducked out of the way, laughing. “Ok, fine, we’re nauseatingly perfect together. But Ferre and I also agree that not every soulmate situation works out that way and that no one should be forced into what we have been since we were five.”

“I know,” Enjolras sighed, slowly sitting up. “I just thought that I’d have more time to figure out what exactly I’m going to do.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged glances. It was what the three of them had spent the last several years working on, all through high school and now college: trying to devise a plan for individuals who had no interest in finding or pursuing the person who shared their soul mark. “At least you still have until you’re twenty-five to either find him or figure out a plan,” Combeferre reasoned.

“Yeah, but only because if I don’t, I’m shunned by society as a ‘dangerous deviant’,” Enjolras said, his scowl deepening. He rubbed his side, his brow furrowed. “I just hate knowing that this stupid tattoo is even on me, like some kind of cosmic time bomb. I wish I could just get it removed like it was a tattoo I got from a drunken mistake freshman year.”

  
“That was remarkably specific, and we’re going to circle back to that, because I’m pretty sure there’s a story there somewhere,” Courfeyrac said, leaning forward. “But why don’t you just get it removed?”

Enjolras perked up but Combeferre shook his head. “Because — as we’ve discussed many times — he can’t. None of us can. The soul mark isn’t like a normal tattoo, which is injected in the dermis layer of skin — soul marks go all the way down to the underlying bone and tissue. Even if you scraped away the skin, the mark would still be there, and any skin that regrew would also bear the mark.”

While Enjolras groaned and leaned back again in defeat, Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out at Combeferre. “You sound like you swallowed one of Joly’s textbooks.”

Combeferre gave him the finger and Enjolras groaned again. “Children, don’t make me separate you,” he grumbled with the air of one who had sat through far too many similar bickering sessions. He sighed heavily. “Maybe I could get the stupid thing covered up.”

“You probably could, or at least, tattoo the skin around the soul mark to change the outward appearance of the design,” Combeferre said thoughtfully. “But what good would that do? It doesn’t change the societal demand that you find your soulmate, or timeline you have to do so.”

“Maybe not,” Enjolras said, sounding excited for the first time all morning as he sat up, “but it would change how I feel about it. Making it into something different would be reclaiming my agency, don’t you see? And since I don’t exactly have a lot of other options...”

He trailed off and Courfeyrac nodded slowly. “It makes sense to me — but do you think you can find a tattoo artist willing to do it? You know as well as I do what a premium society places on soul marks. Someone willing to tattoo over it has to share our...frustrations, shall we say.”

Combeferre tapped his chin. “So we’d be looking for a seditious tattoo artist…” He grinned. “If there’s anyone who would know someone like that, it’d be Bahorel.”

Enjolras whipped out his cellphone and dialed Bahorel’s number. “Bahorel?” he said. “I need a favor.”

* * *

Bahorel slung an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders, laughing loudly as they walked towards the tattoo parlor. “You know, I always planned on taking you to get your first tattoo,” Bahorel told him genially. “Of course, I imagined it would be under different circumstances.”

Enjolras laughed as well, though his laugh was a bit strained. “You’re sure this guy is good?” he asked for what had to be the eighteenth time.

“Positive,” Bahorel said confidently. “He did all four of my most recent tats. This one, here—” He swivelled his arm to show the half-naked mermaid on his bicep. “And the one on the back of my neck—” Enjolras’s eyes flickered almost nervously at the flaming skull. “And this here on my wrist.” The words ‘RISE UP’ were written in beautiful calligraphy.

Enjolras frowned. “Didn’t you say your last four tattoos?”

Bahorel smirked at him. “Yeah, but I’m not gonna tell you where the fourth one is. You’ll have to use your imagination.” Almost against his will, Enjolras blushed, and Bahorel’s smirk turned smug. 

“Anyway,” Enjolras said loudly, trying to hide his embarrassment, “if he’s as good as you say he is, hopefully he can make this lopsided mess look better.” He shot a side glance as Bahorel. “And you’re sure he’s...sympathetic?”

Bahorel shrugged. “I mean, he’s not exactly the activist type, so I’d never expect to see him at a meeting or anything, but from the many drunken conversations I’ve had with him, he has no love for the idea of soulmates. Besides, I know someone whose tattoo he’s covered up.”

“Really?” Enjolras asked, perking up at that. “Who?”

“A friend of a friend,” Bahorel said, shrugging. “She was in love with this guy who wasn’t her soulmate, and then he found his soulmate, so she decided to get hers covered up. Of course, rumor has it she had hers converted into the same as his, but, hey. At least we know that won’t be your problem.”

Enjolras scowled. “Somehow, that story made me feel less good about doing this.”

Bahorel steered Enjolras toward the storefront whose windows were covered with blown up tattoo illustrations. “Well, you don’t have to go through with your plan if you’re having second thoughts,” he said, holding the door open to Enjolras. “But you’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m gonna let you walk out of a tattoo parlor without getting some kind of tattoo or at least a piercing.”

Enjolras made a face. “A piercing?” he asked, glancing over at Bahorel as he leaned on the reception counter. “What kind of piercing?”

“Nipple or Prince Albert, if you’re taking suggestions,” the dark-haired man behind the counter said, smirking at Enjolras when he glared at him.

Bahorel beamed at the man. “R, you scoundrel, you can’t just suggest strangers get their dicks pierced,” he said, reaching around the counter to give the man a one-armed hug. “Especially when this is your victim of the moment.” Bahorel looked back at Enjolras. “Enjolras, this is Grantaire. He’ll be tattooing you — or piercing you, if you decide to go that route.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ll stick with the tattoo and avoid any genital piercings.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Grantaire said, offering his hand for Enjolras to shake. “But tattoos are just as fun. C’mon.” He jerked his head toward the back of the shop. “Bahorel, you have to stay up here. You know the health code.”

Bahorel waved a dismissive hand, already settling into one of the chairs in the waiting room. “Take your time with him,” he said.

Grantaire lowered his voice as they passed a girl getting what looked like a bat tattooed on her lower back. “Bahorel explained the, uh, unique circumstances to me, so I’ve got a special chair set up in the back room where we won’t be interrupted.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, genuinely grateful. He hadn’t even considered the possibility of someone walking in and asking questions about the tattoo he’d be covering up. “So do you do this often?”

“You know, under different circumstances, that would sound like a pick-up line,” Grantaire said casually, smirking when Enjolras blushed. “But to answer your question, not often — every now and then, only people who have been referred from a friend. I mean, it’s not _technically_ illegal, but...I’d rather not risk it.”

He opened the door to the back room and gestured for Enjolras to go inside, closing the door behind them. “So. About this tattoo — where is it located?”

Enjolras pressed his hand against his side. “Right here, on my ribs,” he said, taking a seat on the table. “Which I’ve been informed is a very painful spot to get a tattoo, so this will probably be the only one I ever get.”

Grantaire chuckled lightly. “You say that, but there’s an adrenaline rush — you might be surprised.” He held out his own arms, which were covered in tattoos. “When I was fifteen, I got my first tattoo, and I was addicted ever since. If you want painful tattoos, get one on your elbow.” He rubbed his hand over the Captain America shield that covered the opposite elbow. “That’s painful as fuck.”

“Odd, since I’ve never found fucking to be particularly painful,” Enjolras said lightly, and Grantaire choked on air.

When he resurfaced, Grantaire wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “I knew I was gonna like you,” he told Enjolras, sitting down on the stool and picking up a sketchpad. “Even if Bahorel warned me that you were completely delusional.”

Enjolras scowled. “Bahorel called me delusional?”

“No, but what he said about you allowed me to draw that conclusion for myself,” Grantaire said brightly. “Now, let’s see this soul mark of yours.”

Enjolras huffed a sigh and lifted up his shirt so that Grantaire could see the mark. “I think it looks like a lopsided bird,” he told Grantaire, expecting him to laugh.

Instead, Grantaire was oddly quiet, staring at Enjolras’s soul mark as if staring through it. “No, it doesn’t,” he said distantly. “It looks like a pterodactyl.”

Enjolras turned to look at the soul mark in the mirror. “Huh,” he said. “You’re right. I didn’t see that.” He lowered his shirt and smiled at Grantaire. “Good eye.”

“Well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Grantaire muttered, not meeting Enjolras’s eye as he quickly sketched the outline of the soul mark on his pad. Enjolras was surprised to see that he drew it out with perfect accuracy after having only seen it once. “So what do you think you want to turn this pterodactyl into?”

Enjolras dug in his back pocket for the tattoo he had printed off of the internet. “I was thinking a phoenix — you know, rising from the ashes and being reborn. It feels right to have that symbolize choosing my own destiny and getting rid of this stupid tattoo.”

Grantaire took the paper from Enjolras and scanned it quickly before setting it aside and getting to work on the sketch. “So what is it about the idea of soulmates that you hate so much? Don’t want to be forced into a relationship with someone?”

Shrugging, Enjolras tugged his shirt off, figuring Grantaire would ask him to take it off sooner or later. “Honestly, it’s less about that. I don’t like the idea of predetermination in general. People should be free to make their own choices, including choosing not to fall in love.” He glanced over at Grantaire. “What about you? Bahorel said you weren’t fond of the idea of soulmates either.”

Shrugging, Grantaire didn’t look up from his sketch. “Mostly I don’t think anyone should be stuck with me,” he said dryly, and Enjolras couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. Grantaire glanced at the print out once more before putting his pen down. “Alright, what do you think?”

He held the sketchbook out, his mouth falling open when he saw Enjolras sitting there, shirtless. “That looks _awesome_ ,” Enjolras said, taking the sketchpad from Grantaire and examining the drawing. “Seriously badass. And nothing like this shitty soul mark. Perfect.” He handed the sketchpad back to the Grantaire, who was still staring, and glanced down at himself, frowning. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Grantaire said quickly, taking the sketchpad back. “I’ll get this transferred onto your skin as an outline, and then we’ll be ready to go — if you’re sure you want to go through with this.”

“I’m sure,” Enjolras said confidently, though he also hesitated. “I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”

Grantaire shrugged, indicating that Enjolras should lie down on his side. “Well, you are only, what, 19? You’ve got a lot of time before you really have to worry about finding your soulmate. And getting your soul mark covered — that’s a bit of a drastic step.”

Enjolras tried to shrug, though it was difficult to do lying on his side. “Maybe, but it feels like something I need to do. I haven’t felt right ever since this stupid thing appeared.” He craned his neck around to look at Grantaire. “I mean, what did it feel like when you got yours?”

Grantaire’s hands froze for a moment before he went back to transferring the outline onto Enjolras’s skin. “Hard to say,” he muttered. “I haven’t had mine for all that long, and haven’t really given it much thought.”

“Did you meet your soulmate?” Enjolras asked, curious.

“Nope,” Grantaire said, finishing the outline and sitting back, checking his work. “I, uh, turned 21 recently.” He wheeled the stool over to prep the needle gun. “You want to check to make sure you like the look of that?”

Enjolras stood to examine it in the mirror. “Looks good to me,” he said, with slightly more confidence than he felt, and he lay back down on the table. “Let’s do this.”

Grantaire bent over Enjolras, his hand surprisingly gentle on Enjolras’s skin as he stretched it out, and Enjolras shivered involuntarily. “I have to warn you,” he said quietly, “I tend not to talk much when I do this. I don’t want to accidentally distract myself from the task at hand.”

“So then how am I supposed to distract myself from the pain?” Enjolras grumbled, flashing Grantaire a nervous grin.

“Relax,” Grantaire commanded. “That’ll help. And recite something out loud if you need, or sing, or whatever.” 

Enjolras closed his eyes as the whir of the tattoo gun started. “Recite something out loud,” he muttered. “Right. Um. ‘The representatives of the French people, organized as a National Assembly, believing—” He broke off with a gasp. “Ouch.”

“You ok?” Grantaire asked, his own voice sounding slightly strained.

Enjolras winced. “Yeah. Carry on. I’m fine, I swear.” Grantaire resumed and Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut again, picking up the pace of his recitation slightly. “—believing that the ignorance, neglect, or contempt of the rights of man are the sole cause of public calamities…”

He made it almost all the way through the Declaration of the Rights of Man by the time Grantaire sat back and wiped the tattoo down, ending on Article 16. Grantaire grinned as Enjolras shakily sat up. “What the hell was that you were reciting?” he asked.

“The Declaration of the Rights of Man,” Enjolras said, staring at the tattoo in the mirror. “Dude, this seriously looks _amazing_. Thank you!”

Grantaire smiled tiredly. “One of my better masterpieces, if I do say so myself. Let me just get your wrapped up and you can get out of here.”

He stood and Enjolras glanced over at him, his smile disappearing. “Grantaire, stop,” Enjolras said, reaching out and seizing Grantaire’s wrist. “You’re bleeding!”

Grantaire glanced down at his side, where blood was starting to stain his shirt. “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll clean it up later. 

“It’s not nothing,” Enjolras insisted, pulling at Grantaire’s shirt to try to lift it up and see the wound. “It’s—”

He broke off in confusion as Grantaire quickly tried to shove his shirt back down. But it was too late. Enjolras had already seen what was causing the blood on Grantaire’s side — the exact same phoenix design that was bleeding on Enjolras’s ribs in the exact same place. “That’s...I don’t...how?” Enjolras stammered.

Grantaire smiled tightly. “Apparently, whatever you do to a soul mark is also done to the soulmate’s mark,” he said, swallowing hard. “I didn’t know that. I mean, obviously, all of the previous I’d done were for people who didn’t know their soulmate. I never would’ve...having known what I was doing to an unsuspecting person…”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “But...how?” he repeated. “You’re my... _you_?”

Grantaire’s smile disappeared and he just looked tired. “Apparently, and I’ll try not to take offense at the way that you asked that.” He shrugged and picked up a bandage from the table. “I need to get your tattoo covered to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“So you’re just...you’re just going to pretend that this didn’t happen?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire’s hand fell to his side, and for the first time, he looked irritated. “No, I’m not pretending anything. But you came to me to get your soul mark covered because you have no interest in having a soulmate foisted upon you, so why the fuck would I try to force you into anything?”

His tone was sharper than Enjolras expected, and he shook his head, finding that he didn’t quite know what to say to that. “I guess I didn’t think of that,” he said quietly. He chanced a glance up at Grantaire. “But you have rights, too. And I didn’t know that what I was doing…” He trailed off before asking, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“When?” Grantaire asked, slumping back down on the stool. “When I realized that you were my soulmate? Or when I felt the tattoo start on me?” Enjolras shrugged and Grantaire sighed. “I don’t know. Like I said, I don’t want anyone to be stuck with me, especially someone like you.”

Enjolras frowned, then shook his head. “So now that we know, what do we do?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”

Both men just stared at each other for a long moment before Enjolras smiled hesitantly. “Well, there are worse ways to meet your soulmate.” Grantaire cracked a smile and Enjolras’s smile widened at the sight. “I think it’s safe to say that nothing about this is going to be traditional, or what society would expect.”

“Fuck society,” Grantaire said, grinning. He shrugged again. “So let’s do things our own way. Try to be friends, see where it goes from there.” He glanced at Enjolras. “I’d like to take you out for coffee. There’s a Starbucks not too far from here.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, Starbucks? Why would you want to feed the corporate machine?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Christ, you’re one of _those_ , aren’t you?” He sighed and ran a hand across his face. “And you’re going to end up being a total pain in my ass.”

“Me? What about you?” Enjolras challenged. They both glared at each other before smiling again, this time a little more readily. 

Grantaire grabbed the bandage again. “Now will you let me cover your tattoo?” Enjolras nodded and lifted his arm so that Grantaire could apply the bandage. “Leave it on for at least two hours, preferably four to six. I’ll give you a card with additional instructions.”

“Are you going to cover your own tattoo?” Enjolras asked. 

Grantaire glanced down at himself. “Honestly, since I’m not entirely sure what happened to me, I’m going to have to look at it to figure out how best to treat it.” He shot Enjolras a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Enjolras huffed a sigh. “I wasn’t worried,” he said defensively.

Grantaire smirked at him. “Sure you weren’t.” 

Enjolras stood and grabbed his shirt, gingerly tugging it back on to avoid hurting his tattoo. “So,” he said slowly, “how much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Grantaire said, still smirking. “Tattoos for my soulmate are on the house.” When Enjolras scowled at him, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Consider it my way of saying thanks because that pterodactyl shit was hideous.”

Enjolras grinned. “Deal.” He hesitated. “So. I’ll, uh, I’ll get your number from Bahorel, so we can get coffee and talk. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Grantaire agreed, suddenly serious. “And I meant what I said — I’m not forcing you into anything.”

“I believe that,” Enjolras said truthfully, with a small smile. “Which honestly might make all the difference.”  



End file.
